Page 2 of 5

Mirror of the Beholder

My body’s my own,
it belongs to no other.
I’ll decide how I’m known:
sister or brother.

When you get to know me better,
you’ll find it’s not that hard.
I’m more than a letter
on a laminated card.

I’m more than my hair,
my figure, or clothes.
And it may not sound fair,
but I chose what I chose.

So when we meet, please be kind;
respect what’s in my heart and my mind.

Tough Love

Love is complex –
it’s rarely simple;
it’s more than a reflex
to a flattering dimple.

It’s not a science,
no matter what they say.
When they’d predict compliance,
their subjects gainsay.

It is a feeling,
but that word falls short
of how love leaves you reeling
from its fierce retorts.

Perhaps love is a force:
unstoppable, immovable, and without remorse.

Wearied weather

Searching the sky,
looking for clues,
and wondering why
no one answers you.

You scream and you shout,
but the clouds just don’t care;
they flutter about,
and give bored gray stares.

So you turn away,
and retreat inside,
perhaps to pray,
or perhaps to hide.

But your problems don’t wait at the door –
they follow you in to trouble you more.

Parched Pathos

I hate the color of your skin,
and the contours of your face.
My God calls them a sin,
and my pride, a disgrace.

You murdered my brother;
you’ll reap the whirlwinds.
I’ll take away your father,
your family, and friends.

I’ll find those you hold dear,
and set them all ablaze,
and the last thing they will hear
is me laughing through the haze.

And finally, for my own mirth,
I’ll even salt the very earth.

A memory of melody

I feel as though
I don’t belong
for long ago
I lost the song.

I used to hear
it blow through my soul;
I held it dear
and now there’s this hole.

The silence bears down
with the weight of an age
and I’m starting to drown
in the pain and the rage.

And now I’ve paid a heavy cost
in scars searching for salvation lost.


In the heart of the night
when things seem most stark,
don’t give up the fight,
and face down the dark.

I know you feel weak,
like you’ve already lost,
but standing there meek
carries too great a cost.

Courage doesn’t stand
in the absence of fear;
it’s what you hold in your hand
when your terrors are near.

So stand at the ready, prepared for war
and give all your nightmares a proper what for.

A Royal affair

The old king was a tyrant
who played the game of war
and those who weren’t compliant
he would show what for.

The queen played games as well
not war, but of the heart
which, at a glance, seemed less fell
but were plagued by false starts.

The jester played the crowd
with pomp and pageantry
and told his stories proud and loud
with playful pandemony.

But when the lights went out, instead
the jester played games in the royal bed.

Hanging on your every word

I check my cell phone regularly
and with increasing frequency
and watch the time just slip away,
wondering what you have to say.

Eventually this dread disease
of wondering what to say to please
saps my strength with its fell fever
yet I cannot bring myself to leave her.

Now every single unsaid word
carries silence like a sword
and a noose of pitch-black rope
woven from my shattered hope.

But by the time his phone was ringing
his body had long-since stopped swinging.

Poignant profile

I’m different from the pack –
I stand on the outside.
Always on guard for an attack,
always prepared to hide.

Is it so hard to just accept
and love me as I am?
Why do you feel you must reject
and hurt me once again?

I cannot change my ways –
it would be a lie
though honestly some days
I’m tempted to try.

So I’ll stand proudly, full of grace,
while tears are trailing down my face.

Off the beaten path

Please save me a kind word –
it’s been one of those days
where I still haven’t heard
a single word of praise.

Would it really be a trial
to stop by with coffee
or to linger a while
while sipping your tea?

Share with me a moment
of companionship
that would make me less lament
this day of utter shit.

For it’s in small gestures that I find
peace of spirit and of mind.